Pass the Bottle
by Froody
Summary: In which Harry is locked in Hagrid's cabin with Malfoy and a bottle of Firewhiskey.


"Pass the bottle," said Harry, and Malfoy complied without a word. Harry propped himself against the door and closed his eyes. "I can't believe this," he said to himself, and knocked his head back on the rough wood, punctuating his words. "I can't. Believe this."

"I can," said Malfoy. "They're your friends." (The word 'friends' was enunciated with a very particular sort of derision that Harry rather agreed with.) "I'd believe anything of the Weasel and that giant oaf."

"Just because they're my friends doesn't mean they have the right to lock me in a cabin with you, Malfoy," said Harry, choosing not to defend Ron and Hagrid on this occasion. He cracked open his eyes to glare at the blond git sitting on the gigantic bed opposite.

"Call this a cabin?" said Malfoy, peering about Hagrid's one-roomed hut with clear disdain. "This is a hovel, Potter, and a poorly decorated hovel at that."

"Oh, give it a rest," Harry said with a groan, turning around and jangling at the doorknob as he had done for the past two hours. Magic had utterly failed to open either of the doors – the clearest indication of Hermione's involvement in the whole wretched affair. Needless to say, Harry's present efforts went unrewarded.

"Mind the bottle," said Malfoy, and Harry noted the wisdom in these words. If they were to be stuck for Merlin knows how long in each other's company, they would need every drop of Firewhiskey stocked away at the back of Hagrid's cupboards.

Harry glanced about the room, eyeing kettles and cauldrons and Fang's slightly singed basket and wondering where he would hide spare keys if he were Hagrid. Probably in the stomach of a Blast-Ended Skrewt.

"If you think Granger's left us a way out of this dragon-breeding sty, then you must be stupider than I thought," said Malfoy with a sneer. "You obviously can't handle your liquor, Potter. Give me the bottle before you make a fool of yourself."

* * *

"I'm over it, Potter," said Malfoy, trailing his fingers through the air. "I've just about had done with all this moping and guilt and general tragedy. I'm carefree now. I am free of cares and war shame, and anyone who says otherwise can bugger off."

"Inspiring," said Harry, attempting to prise the bottle free from Malfoy's hand. This little speech had been going on for quite a while now.

"Yeah, that too. I am quite inspiring, aren't I?"

"I think the word you're looking for," said Harry, giving up on his efforts to loosen Malfoy's grip of steel, "is 'insufferable'. Insufferable, and pissed out of your skull."

"So what if I am?" said Malfoy. "I'm eighteen. I am insuffe- I mean, insatiable! Twat."

"I agree. You are an insatiable twat." Harry grinned; he couldn't help it.

"You should nurture my carefree spirit, Potter." Malfoy's hand trailed ever so threateningly in the general direction of Harry's throat. "Mother always said that I was insuff- I mean–"

"I'm sure she did." Harry didn't even try to hide the smirk on his face. Malfoy's relentless snark, so aggravating for the past eight (sober) years, was quite entertaining when accompanied by a decent slosh of booze.

"And what's so good about your life, anyway?" Malfoy continued, evidently determining to ignore Harry's remark. "You save the world, hurrah. Back to school, everyone's scared of you. Your own best friends can't wait to lock you up and scurry away."

Harry slumped back against Hagrid's enormous quilt-covered bed and thought about this. "They locked you up, too," he said finally. "And besides, they're not scared of me. They're just sick of me, I suppose."

"I'm sick of you, too, Potter."

"The feeling's mutual."

"I've been sick of you for much longer than those traitors, believe me."

"Oh, I believe you, Malfoy."

"But at least," said Malfoy, propping himself up on the edge of the bed, "at least I have a good reason for it!" His pointed face was animated, eyes wide and earnest.

Harry rolled his head to the side and gazed at Malfoy with a curious feeling of affection. Obviously some variant of Stockholm syndrome was playing havoc with his hormones. The alcohol couldn't be helping.

"What's that?" said Harry, willing to play along with this booze-improved version of his schoolyard nemesis.

Malfoy sat still for a moment, staring at Harry with his head tilted as if measuring up his next words. "You saved my life."

"Twice." Harry shook his head at the inanity of Malfoy's words. "But then again, I did almost kill you that one time, so I'd say we're fairly even–"

"See, look – you're doing it again." Malfoy's face twisted into a scowl; he looked almost sober. "Stop it, would you? Wish I could lock you in a hut."

"Stop what?" asked Harry, honestly baffled. "Talking? Breathing? Saving your life?"

"Yes, yes, yes, but also, no," snapped Malfoy, crimson rising in his neck. "Stop acting like you didn't do it, Potter. Stop acting like nothing's changed."

"But nothing's changed!" Harry protested, feeling lost. "You're alive; I'm alive; we hate each other."

Malfoy grabbed fistfuls of the massive quilt and then sat quite still. His grey eyes sharpened into a controlled glare. He inhaled deeply, then spoke: "It's not mutual."

"Oh," said Harry, and then: "Oh. Er."

"Wait!" Malfoy closed his eyes. "I was wrong. It's mutual."

"You don't hate me," said Harry slowly, staring across the two feet of space to where Malfoy sat hunched up around his bottle of Firewhiskey.

"No," Malfoy said to the bottle, refusing to look up. "Shouldn't mean anything to you, Potter. You've plenty of reasons to hate me."

"I'll say." Harry gazed at the mostly empty bottle. "But I'm not sure if I do, you know." He paused. "That's why we're locked up in here, I suppose."

Malfoy's head snapped around at Harry's words. He looked far from thrilled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Harry sighed and kicked at the wooden table leg in front of him. "I don't know. Apparently, I – I talk about you too much. Or glare at you too much. It's just something Hermione said; it's probably nothing, really."

"Probably nothing." Malfoy looked slightly overwhelmed. "Probably – probably, Potter, you are as demented as your so-called friends."

"She also said that you glare right back," said Harry idly, still poking at the table leg with his big toe. "Said we spend most of our time locked in a mutual – something."

"I see," said Malfoy, before slapping at Harry's leg and stopping the table abuse.

After a minute, in which Harry's inner Gryffindor engaged in a brief battle with his sanity, he reached out and grabbed at Malfoy's hand. Malfoy yelped and tried to pull away, but Harry held fast. A tense moment later, Malfoy's fingers relaxed.

"I was right," said Malfoy in a soft voice, looking hard into Harry's eyes. "You are demented."

Harry gazed back, hardly inclined to disagree. He opened his mouth, closed it, and found that his eyes had dropped to Malfoy's lips, which, for the first time in a fair while, were silent. Before he could dwell further on Malfoy's mouth, a muffled squawk sounded through the window. Harry would have leapt to his feet if Malfoy's hand hadn't reached out and kept him on the ground.

"They're watching at the windows, don't act like you didn't know," said Malfoy, more cheerful, taking another swig from the bottle and wiping his mouth with the quilt.

"I didn't, you unbelievable prat." Harry flushed warmly at the sight of the twitching curtains. "You've always been a little exhibitionist, haven't you?"

"You've always loved to watch, Potty," said Malfoy, hauling himself to his feet with some effort and wobbling threateningly towards the window. Harry watched as Hagrid and Hermione legged it towards the castle, and wondered just how he'd feel about this when the Firewhiskey wore off. And then he remembered to deny Malfoy's wilful accusations.

"Yeah, right," he said (much too late), but his words did the trick, and Malfoy diverted the course of his wobbling until he managed to slide down to the floor next to Harry.

"Don't deny it, Potter."

"Don't come near me, Malfoy," Harry countered. "I know what's been in your mouth."

"Nothing wrong with a bit of stoat sandwich," said Malfoy, making a show of licking his lips, but Harry ducked away.

"You really do remind me of my cousin sometimes," Harry grimaced.

"He blond?"

"Well, yeah–"

"Light of his mother's life?"

"Yes, actually, but–"

"Intelligent, is he?"

"Right at your level, I'd say."

"Ridiculously good-looking?"

For a moment, Harry felt like he was going to vomit.

"You know, I may be a pureblood, but all this talk of cousins isn't really getting me off," Malfoy continued, oblivious. "Now pass the bottle, Potter – it's obvious you've had enough. You're looking all nauseous."

"I'm sick of you." Harry smirked and rolled the bottle away from Malfoy's greedy, grasping fingers.

Malfoy growled, but a corner of his mouth twitched. He jabbed Harry rather affectionately in the ribs, then left his hand resting there. "The feeling's mutual."


End file.
